


In the dark of the night

by itsrainingboyz2men



Category: Les Trois Mousquetaires | The Three Musketeers - Alexandre Dumas, The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - American South, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Multi, New Year's Eve, New Year's Fluff, New Year's Kiss, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-10
Updated: 2015-01-10
Packaged: 2018-03-06 23:16:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3151985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsrainingboyz2men/pseuds/itsrainingboyz2men
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aramis manages to drag both Athos and Porthos from their homes in New Orleans up to NYC for New Year's. Athos hates the crowd, the clamor, and the cold. He doesn't know what Aramis and Porthos have planned for when the ball drops.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the dark of the night

Athos deeply regretted ever meeting Aramis.

He had a way of just, simply _talking people into things_. Somehow, with some trick of his tone, those big, dark eyes, and whatever magic he must have sold his soul for, Aramis could talk people into doing things they didn’t need, or even want. Even Athos. Hell, even Treville, apparently – that was why Athos was standing in what was quite possibly the dirtiest bar bathroom he had ever had the misfortune of experiencing, trying to rinse the sticky residue of some excited woman’s mixed slush drink off the sleeve of his best jacket before it stained. Leave it to Aramis to volunteer them for a weaponry expo in New York City. It was only natural that he had convinced Treville to send them for both legs of the expo, _conveniently_ sandwiched around New Year’s.

“We need to see everything they have to offer,” Aramis had said, standing in Treville’s office back in New Orleans a couple weeks back, with his arms folded across his chest. “The firm needs to stay as up-to-date with its weaponry technology as possible – we don’t want a repeat of that last job we did for Louis.”

He made kind of a good point, Athos had to admit, but not good enough for Treville, surely. Treville had visibly thought about Aramis’s proposition for a few moments before responding, and surely, Athos had thought, he wouldn’t send them. Surely not. And then Treville had blindsided him by agreeing with Aramis. “I’d rather have y’all back here sooner than later, but you do make a good point. You’ll be gone for the week, and I expect to hear about what all y’all come across up there.” He had turned back to an open folder on his desk before looking up once more and adding, clearly to Aramis (but looking Athos dead in the eye), “Don’t forget y’all are there on business.” Then he’d waved them out of his office.

And so it was, that they were in fucking New York City on fucking New Year’s Eve, trying to get to Times Square by midnight (risking Aramis’s “eternal heartbreak” if they didn’t make it in time for the countdown).

The bathroom door opened and a tall figure in a brown leather coat stepped through. Porthos had his shoulders hunched, his head ducked down into his scarf and his coat’s high collar, alternately rubbing his hands together and breathing on them. It was as adorable as it was pathetic. “Lord, it’s freezin’ here. And folks keep askin’ me to talk for ‘em.”

Athos had seen them, all night. A couple of people had tried to start something similar with Savannah-born Athos when they noticed what remained of his own accent, but his off-putting demeanor and practiced glare had sent them on their way. Porthos, on the other hand, was inviting. It was his first time to the city (or, as he’d said, “up as far as the Mason-Dixon line”), and he had started off thrilled that people seemed to find he and his thick, unmistakably Cajun accent interesting. They would stand around Porthos, endlessly entertained, telling him one phrase after another to say to them, recording a few with their phones and occasionally buying him drinks to keep him going. Athos had kept a close eye on those drinks, even knowing full well that Porthos was keeping his wits about him. He’d been raised out of the back of sketchy bayou bars (Athos had been to some of them, and fully intended to never go back). If anyone knew how to keep their head clear and their focus at the ready, it was Porthos. But Athos couldn’t help but worry. Porthos was tall and cute and southern and single, and as far as he knew, Porthos had never seen a city bigger than New Orleans, or further north than Hot Springs. He couldn’t think of a more perfect target for someone to drug.

Porthos made a low sound in his throat as he rubbed his hands together again before shoving them in his coat pockets and looking Athos dead in the eye. His voice was intense as he spoke, but the intensity was ruined by his chattering teeth and shivering frame. It was endearing. Athos wanted to warm him up, even started to imagine how warm Porthos would be, skin to skin, before he caught himself. The last thing he needed was to start fantasizing about his best friends (his only friends) and coworkers (who he had to see every day, he reminded himself). He tried to reign his head back into reality and his heart back from its sprint to focus on what Porthos was saying. He managed to catch, “tell you what, though: Aramis owes us big for this one,” before Porthos clamped his mouth shut, hard.

“That,” Athos huffed, wiping his coat sleeve with the very last of the hand napkins, “he damn sure does.”

They found Aramis in a far corner, speaking Spanish with a group of women, all dressed to the nines for the night and apparently more than happy to spend their New Year’s Eve speaking to Aramis. (And who could blame them, Athos wondered – just seeing Aramis across the room, his wide smile and model’s face, made Athos’s heart skip a beat. Or ten. He tried to slow it down.) He waved at them, and said something to the women before ducking his head and walking toward Athos and Porthos, hat in hand.

“Fellas, how goes your evening?” he asked, the slight Spanish accent and charm still dripping from his voice.

“If you wanna make it to where we can see the ball drop from here, we’re gonna have to get going,” Athos said. He wasn’t sure they’d be able to make it close enough – there were only a couple of hours left until midnight, and the streets were packed as it was. Their only real chance was Porthos’s combined height, build, and manners, and Aramis’s sheer force of will.

Aramis’s face went straight and he nodded, “Probably right. Let’s go.”

Athos thought he couldn’t get out of the packed bar fast enough, but immediately regretted leaving its warmth when the first breath of the freezing breeze hit his face. The flurries were light, and would have easily been beautiful, had Athos not had to stand out in them. Still, as freezing as he was, Aramis and Porthos were taking the cold even worse – teeth chattering, shoulders hunched, heads ducked low into the scarves around their necks. At least Athos had seen snow, growing up. If he’d been a gambling man, he’d have bet all the money in his billfold that they hadn’t even seen real snow until at least their twenties, if ever before.

“Aramis,” Porthos said slow, holding his jaw taut to keep his teeth from chattering too hard, “you really wanna stand out in this _shit_ for another two hours?” Snowflakes were getting caught in his short curls.

To keep himself from breaking down and running his hands through Porthos’s hair in the middle of the street, he yanked the knit hat off his own head and handed it to Porthos. When Porthos tried to refuse, Athos just said, “You need it more than me. Constance’ll just make me another one, anyhow.”

Aramis nodded at Porthos, “Yeah, I’ve never been to N-Y-C, and I’m positive I wanna see it.” If it had been anyone else, Athos would have left them standing there, to go back to whatever warmth he could find in his hotel room. Porthos would likely have done the same.

But damn if they couldn’t say no to Aramis. No one could, it seemed.

They finally got close enough for Aramis’s liking less than twenty minutes before midnight. It had taken some serious shoving, and Athos hands were frozen, even inside his gloves, from having to hang on to Porthos’s coat to make it through the crowd. People were packed (it was suffocating, in all honesty, but it was also much warmer than standing out in the still-falling snow on their own), but luckily, people tended to scoot to the side when Porthos pushed his arm ahead and boomed, “’scuse me!” in a polite, albeit loud, voice. Athos was unbelievably grateful for Porthos, then. (Always.) Athos himself might have been able to get the job done, but it would have involved lot more fighting words thrown along the way.

They were still more than halfway down the block from the proper front of the crowd, but it was close enough. They huddled together, hands shoved in their coat pockets and heads ducked close to one another. “I should’a drank more,” Porthos said, “might’a warmed me up some.”

“Not when we’d have to leave you in the street for being too damn heavy to drag back to the hotel,” Aramis chimed in. Their teeth weren’t chattering as hard now, being somewhat warmed by so many people around them, so their grins looked much softer than before, much more normal.

Porthos chuckled once, tilting his head and making a face that seemed to say Aramis was likely right. Something about Porthos’s grin made Athos’s heart melt. He tried to ignore it.

The minutes until the countdown seemed to drag on forever, between the cold and the noise. The crowd was deafening, so any actual conversation would have been drowned out, and any other noise was muffled into a dull roar by the time it reached them. Athos leaned his shoulders into Porthos’s and Aramis’s, looking up at the tower ahead of them. At least the snow seemed to have slowed for now. Twelve minutes to go, now.

When they had ten minutes to go, Aramis mentioned that you were supposed to kiss someone when the clock struck midnight – something about good luck in your love life for the upcoming year. Porthos responded that he’d have to find a restaurant that made stewed cabbage and black-eyed peas on New Year’s Day, because “y’all damn sure know all of us need all the luck and money we can get our hands on this year.”

When they had four minutes to go, Porthos seemed to make a face and mouthed something at Aramis that Athos didn’t catch. He was about to ask what they were whispering about when some man accidentally elbowed him in the spine trying to squeeze by them. He heard “Sorry, bro!” from somewhere to their left. He figured it would bruise, but it had only really hurt when bone had hit bone. Aramis smiled a wide smile and said, “Hey, at least he said sorry!” Always seeing the bright side, Aramis was. Athos forgot what he had wanted to ask them.

When they had one minute to go, the already deafening crowd went absolutely wild. People were screaming all around them, jostling and jumping (and yelling directly into Athos’s ear, it seemed) more than they had all night – a damn near Olympic feat. Aramis grabbed Athos’s arm and pulled him forward, so the three of them were standing in a line, Athos in the middle, watching the countdown. People around them were already counting, but the three of them waited until it got down to ten seconds, just like the news anchors did on tv.

When they had ten seconds to go, everyone was shouting the numbers. It felt like the universe itself was counting with him.

“10! …9! …8! …7! …6!”

When they had five seconds to go, Aramis and Porthos each put their arms around Athos’s waist. He tried to do the same to them, but his arms were pinned in front of him by the sheer force of so many people packed together.

“…5! ...4! ...3!”

When they had two seconds to go, Athos noticed that both Porthos and Aramis seemed to be leaning forward. They didn’t seem like they were counting. He wondered what they were doing.

“…2!”

When they had one second to go, he thought, this can’t be happening.

“…1!”

And, right the entire world around him screamed “Happy New Year!” so loud it shook his bones, he was absolutely sure he felt his heart leap from his chest to his throat and almost out of his mouth when Aramis leaned in and kissed one of his cheeks and Porthos leaned in and kissed the other.

His thoughts went blank. He froze.

He closed his eyes. He’d imagined this, more times than he would ever want to admit. He always tried to shut it off, so he could look them in the face again, focused on whatever was in front of him. But this time he didn’t have to. He felt himself grin under their lips, felt his deep breath under their arms. It seemed like they stayed that way for minutes, though he was sure it couldn’t have been.

When they each leaned away, still weirdly in sync with one another, Athos didn’t want them to, he wanted to tell them to stay close, he wanted to wrap himself in them again, this time forever, but he didn’t know how to tell them that. (Especially if they meant it as a joke, and Athos was sure they had meant it as a joke.) He didn’t know how to tell them his heart had become a runaway train and his stomach was turning flips beneath it, or how beautiful they both were, even shivering, even damp, even dirty from the people they’d shoved their way through, or that while they might think their joke was funny, he was devastatingly in love with the both of them (how does that even happen? how could he even _be_ in love with both of them?) He didn’t know how to tell them any of that.

So he kept the grin on his face and, looking back-and-forth between the two of them, simply said, “Well, _that_ was a helluva way to bring in the New Year.”

He was surprised to find out that he could still make out their sweet laughs from the world roaring around them.


End file.
